


Hope in a Heart Attack

by catnanami



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Killing Game Was A Virtual Reality Simulation (Dangan Ronpa), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, Recovery, Sleepy Cuddles, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catnanami/pseuds/catnanami
Summary: “Oh. You can, uh, stay with me?” Saihara proposes, noticing the way Ouma vaguely perks up. “If you’d like…”“I would. Uh, if you’re okay with it.”The Ouma in the killing game would have never been so meek, so—cautious with his words, or so faithful in someone else. It’s just another reason for Saihara to try and recover, to heal and lay rest whatever occurred in the simulation; things are different now.(Or: The comfort of finding solace in someone else. And sleepless boys also help each other fall asleep.)
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 197





	Hope in a Heart Attack

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on a whim all in one sitting and it's currently 5 a.m. as i post this cuz i just finished so it's rly not all that good :( i just rly felt the need to write something and produced,, this small one-shot
> 
> it's just something small, i swear i want to write something longer and wayyy more in depth for the characters post-killing game, this was just,, a thing
> 
> title from "line without a hook" by ricky montgomery
> 
> currently proofreading zzzzz enjoy!

He’s so _tired_.

Waking up—being pulled out of the capsule, breath hitching and mind racing and heart _thundering thundering thundering_ —it couldn’t have been more than a week ago; not that he’s keeping track of time. It’s hard to, when you’re surrounded by white walls and in a room that tastes like rubber gloves and smells of sterilization.

Saihara has never been an easy sleeper in the first place. Back in the killing game, when he had to force his eyes close every single night, after a long day of training every night until there was no one left, until purple clashed with purple and—

_stop thinking stop thinking stop breathing_

He’s tired.

At first, he thought he was dead, when they woke him up from the simulation. When they told him he had survived, it wasn’t real at all, no one _really_ died. (Though he’s heard a lot of them say they wished they had just stayed dead. He feels numb. He had survived, but those who hadn’t and still woke up anyway because it wasn’t _real_ —he can’t even begin to imagine how terrible it must be. _Will_ be. For the foreseeable future.)

They had all woken up, one by one. They all reacted differently; screaming, sobbing, violence, silence. Even with the hospital walls dividing them all as they regain their strength, the tension is palpable and irrevocably _there_. Choking them, strangling them—Harukawa’s hand around his throat and—the hydraulic press, the—

(Trying to not think about it just makes him think about it even more. Damn it; he had survived, so why does he feel like this?)

Momota visited him earlier, smiled at him, all in his ungelled hair glory and tired eyes, dark circles clear. Though Saihara supposes he doesn’t look any better, himself. Momota told him that it’s okay to feel whatever he’s feeling, that he’s real and his feelings are valid, and told him that not everyone was taking it well but that’s _okay_ , they’re _okay_.

 _Not yet_ , Saihara had thought to himself, but he bit his tongue and let Momota drone on.

Is the recovery process supposed to be this difficult? Slow? Demoralizing?

He breathes. Closes his eyes.

He just wants to sleep.

\---

Momota visits him often, even though the nurses told him he’s not yet strong enough to drag himself from room to room. Saihara thinks that it may be for Momota’s own comfort more than for his, but he doesn’t complain, not even when Momota won’t shut up (his words have always provided solace, whether it be intentional or not).

Momota also provides him a report on how everyone is doing. “I don’t visit everyone’s rooms, I ask the nurses and they provide me with details,” Momota had said. _That sounds about right,_ Saihara had agreed silently, because he can’t really imagine facing everyone when wounds are so fresh, even if it’s Momota to do it. Especially if it’s to face Ouma.

_Ouma-kun—_

Momota does report every day, though avoids Saihara’s eyes when talking about the purplenette, which is to only be expected. Says that Ouma isn’t dealing well—he fights back on some days, goes completely quiet the next, but refuses to let anyone in except the hospital staff. Says that he has to spend more time out on the balcony than in the room, because the room is too suffocating. Says that he’s not surprised considering the way he had passed.

(Momota especially avoids his eyes when saying that last part. Saihara thinks he wouldn’t be able to handle the immense guilt in them if they were to make eye contact after all.)

Saihara wants to check up on all of them one day, if he can ever, if his mind allows it. Wants to offer his last goodbyes, his apologies, and express his hatred for Team Danganronpa with the rest of them—because no matter how much money Team Danganronpa is willing to offer to compensate for the trauma they went through, nothing makes up for all of this. Nothing could _ever_. Money can’t make up for the nights spent waking up screaming or sobbing or reliving memories he wants to shove away forever—

But especially, he wants to speak to Ouma. 

Maybe not _speak_ , per se (he’s not sure if Ouma would ever even want to do such a thing) but to just—see him. After all, the boy voluntarily got murdered in an insane attempt to end the killing game, and failed. _Saihara_ solved the case. He solved it and there was the Exisal and then Momota got exec—

Ah. Maybe Ouma detests all of them enough to never want to speak to them again. 

Not that Saihara would blame him, of course.

To die so gruesomely, Saihara can’t even begin to process it. Ouma is definitely not normal at all, but even such a death will have to be terrifying, no matter how voluntary it may have to be.

(Why is he so worried about him? Why is he even _thinking_ about him?)

Saihara decides to not think about it. 

He falls asleep.

\---

Saihara is finally given permission to walk around the hospital—it’s a relief, because he also has begun to feel like his legs won’t give out from under him whenever he tries to stand—and Momota is there the first day that he gets that authorization. 

“Hey, Saihara, let’s get a snack or something!” Momota beams at him, eyes more lively than they have been these past few days. He ignores the nurses bumbling around the rooms ready to make their exit. “I’ll help you get to the cafeteria.”

“How can you be so carefree?” Saihara questions with a small smile, more amused than patronizing if anything. 

Momota’s eyes flicker. The smile doesn’t waver. “...I try.”

Saihara doesn’t answer, merely looks out the window before Momota can try to yank him out of bed or something. Of course; none of them are completely fine. Not for a long while. Momota is naturally bright-spirited as he had always been, even when the circumstances in the killing game had been terrible and fucked-up—he’s just always been like that. It’s painfully admirable.

“Don’t push yourself,” Saihara says instead, quiet.

He can’t see Momota from where his gaze is still fixated on the window, but he can hear the clear smile in his voice. “Of course. I’m Momota Kaito—I may not be the Luminary of the Stars, not really, but I’m still pretty cool nonetheless.”

 _Not the Luminary of the Stars_. Because Team Danganronpa decided to go to such _lovely_ lengths; creating fake Ultimate talents and ruining their lives and absolutely demolishing their entire perceptions on who they really are. 

Saihara is still almost as intuitive as he had been in the simulation, probably something he had inherited from the killing game, which is a trait that he doesn’t regret having. It had helped with deductions at the time, and it can still help even in the real world—he can pick up on how Momota is really feeling whenever he visits, and can pick up easily on the tension in his voice and the forced brightness that he’s tried to implement in there.

Momota’s voice is taking on that fake-bright tone this time around. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me too much. No threats to really kill me now. Not like how it was in there.”

Saihara closes his eyes. Momota may be straining himself to try and remain positive, but it’s better than nothing, he supposes.

“Don’t push yourself,” Saihara repeats.

“I won’t.” Momota grins, and Saihara finally meets his eyes. They’re dulled, but warm and still purple as always, familiar. “Now, are we gonna go to the cafeteria or what? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty hungry.”

Saihara returns the grin, albeit how pinched it must look. “Yeah. Let’s go?”

Momota helps pull him to his feet; Saihara almost collapses as soon as he stands, but Momota is quick to bring him back up. Even as his stomach grumbles, he’s not sure if he has any appetite—even if he’s been living off disgusting hospital food brought to him by the nurses, he’s only been eating because he _has_ to. Eating, sleeping, remembering. It’s all so much _work_.

The hallways are quiet, save for the nurses that occasionally pass by. Looking from left to right, he wonders which doors belong to his classmates from the game; which doors contain empty shells of who they were in the simulation, which doors conceal familiar faces all worn and exhausted. Momota talks as they stumble down to the cafeteria. Comforting, warm. Real.

Saihara rubs at his eyes with a yawn as they make it to the cafeteria, almost tripping over his feet again (his legs still feel a bit like jelly) when they walk in.

“And then the nurse told me that Yonaga is actually recovering faster than—” Momota pauses.

_Ah—?_

Saihara follows Momota’s gaze, the taller boy going completely silent mid-sentence, eyes widening.

“Momota-kun—” Saihara pauses when he catches sight of Momota’s cause of discomfort.

Purple hair, longer and duller now, tied back into an unseemly ponytail, a few locks obscuring his vision in a disastrous attempt to hide his eyes. An oversized sweater hangs on his thin frame, swallowing him whole. Pale hands are wrapped around a mug, quivering slightly—the owner of it meets his stare.

Ouma Kokichi, all small and frail—

“O-Ouma,” Momota stammers. He sounds nervous, and rightfully so. 

Saihara is scrambling for the correct words to say as Ouma freezes like a deer in headlights, amethyst eyes as round as golf balls even as hidden under purple bangs as they are; Saihara notices the hands around the mug tighten reflexively. 

“Ouma-kun,” Saihara breathes out, probably the only thing he can say properly.

Ouma gives a small shake of his head, lips pursing and gaze finally breaking away. And, gosh, in the warm cafeteria lights he still looks the same as ever—the same, yet so eerily _different_ —his aura has dampened into one more of a terrified child, nothing like the bravado he had in the killing game or the cockiness he carried himself with. It’s… frightening in its own way. So unlike the Kokichi he’s grown to know in the simulation. 

“Hey—” Momota begins, taking a step forward (to interrogate? To touch? To talk?) and hands coming up as if he’s approaching a small animal. “Um, I…”

Ouma shakes his head again, his grip on the mug tightening even more; Saihara swears he can hear a small hitching breath. He wants to reach out, wants to ask if he’s okay, or ask if he’s ben doing alright, _anything_ —

“How… have you been?” Momota asks before Saihara can gather his thoughts. He’s no doubt attempting to be nice, even though he had expressed to Saihara before that he still can’t get rid of how irritated Ouma makes him. When that same person you say irritates you appears in front of your eyes for the first time in so long though, somebody with as high a social IQ as Momota would know that asking how they’re doing is the correct way to go. 

Ouma is quiet for a bit, scuffling his feet nervously against the floor as he seemingly steels himself. “...Fine.”

Even with how quiet he is, Saihara can’t stop the relief that bubbles up in his chest at the sound of Ouma’s voice for the first time in—how long had it even been? 

Saihara swallows thickly. “Um. Ouma-kun—”

Ouma looks back at him for a split second, and finally moves, trying to exit and maneuver past the two boys in order to reach the door to the cafeteria. Saihara blanches (had he said something wrong to evoke such a reaction?) but before he can move to stop the purple-haired boy, Momota puts a hand on his arm, a silent _let him go._

As Saihara watches helplessly, Ouma makes his leave on shaky legs, disappearing from his sight.

They stand in silence for a few more seconds, Momota’s hand slipping from Saihara’s arm after a bit. 

“Sorry. I didn’t want to push him to talk so much,” Momota apologizes, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even expect him to answer me when I asked how he’s been doing.”

“Ah…” Saihara is the one to shake his head this time, vision of a purple-haired boy etched into his head. “No. It’s fine. I don’t even know what I was going to say to him, anyway.” (Which is true. He would have just stumbled over his words and made Ouma even more uncomfortable than he clearly was.)

“The nurses told me he hasn’t been sleeping well. And that he’s worse off than the others.” Momota smiles, wistful and sad. “Probably my doing. The little shit is annoying no matter what, and he might have asked me to do what I did, but… ah. Sorry.”

Saihara nods in understanding. “No, I get it. Um. We’re all trying to recover. I don’t think any of us have been sleeping well, anyway.”

They eat shitty hospital food in silence.

\---

Saihara awakens with a scream stuck in his throat. He had fallen asleep (in the afternoon) for the first time in a while and it had stayed that way, but the night terrors had came as they always do, tearing his mind apart and scraping their nails down his back and—

This time around he couldn’t stop hearing Tojo’s desperate screams, raw and feral, ringing and reverberating in his ears and echoing in his head. It had been enough to make him jolt up in cold sweat, breath hitching in his chest and sob catching in his esophagus.

It’s already dark outside—he squints to see the clock, ah, around 9 p.m. then—and the hospital is quiet as always, a stark difference from the screams still resonating loudly and they just won’t _stop._

His stomach grumbles—

A snack wouldn’t hurt.

(Mostly because he just really needs to get up and move; he can’t escape all the memories and the noises and the fear he had felt, even though _none_ of it happened at all, even though it was a simulation. Recovering, healing, all of it—it’s so difficult.)

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up with the support of the mattress under his hand as he sways slightly. Without Momota to support him, it’s only slightly more strenuous to attempt to walk, legs still trembling under his weight.

Saihara half expects to come across a ghost in the hallways, given how sinister they feel with their emptiness, and the added noise of his footsteps on tile floors. He traces a finger along the wall; a cool breeze runs across his skin as he makes his way to the cafeteria.

A hand in front of his mouth, he lets out a yawn, stepping into the room and—

Oh—

—There Ouma is, asleep with his cheek pressed against the tables, arms limp next to him and purple hair fanned out; his soft breathing is easy to hear in the silence of the cafeteria, fingers twitching from time to time in steady rest.

“Ah…” Saihara slowly walks over to where the smaller boy is.

Ah.

He looks so peaceful _._

Saihara hadn’t had the chance to have a proper look at him with his hair down or without his longer bangs hiding his eyes. Ouma is a youthful-looking boy in general, even in the killing game, he had always had such expressions, even crocodile tears that emphasized how childish he was. Though even putting all that aside, this is the same boy who had manipulated them all, voluntarily got himself killed, planned everything out just in order to _end the entire killing game—_

It wasn’t _real._ And though not everyone may be willing to forgive him, Ouma is still _himself,_ still human. Someone who, in the end, also went through so much undeniable pain.

It’s jarring.

(And they’re not in the simulation anymore. Not anymore, not ever. The Ouma in front of him, asleep, is real and alive and breathing.)

“Ouma-kun,” Saihara says after a bout of hesitation, gently shaking the smaller boy’s shoulder. The purplenette’s eyelids twitch, but he doesn’t stir. “H-Hey, Ouma-kun…”

Ouma finally awakens, eyes slowly opening and nose scrunching up, blinking a few times in order to gather his bearings. After a few seconds of silence, he sits up with a startled gasp, inhalation catching in his throat as he surveys his surroundings—it takes another few seconds for him to finally look up at Saihara, eyes dull and curious.

“Ah… you fell asleep, so…” Saihara explains, apologetic.

Ouma blinks again a few more times, before nodding slowly. “Oh.”

“Do you wanna get back to your room…?” Saihara asks tentatively—he has no idea if Ouma would really be willing to come along with him. “I can walk you back.”

The other is quiet for a beat. “Okay.”

This time it’s Saihara’s turn to go quiet, silent in surprise from Ouma’s consent. Maybe it’s the sleep making him delirious, or maybe it’s because Saihara is the one who—the only person he can—ah, he really was the only person that Ouma had considered trusting, isn’t he? The scrawled “Trustworthy?” next to his picture on the whiteboard—Saihara is the only one that Ouma had even let himself _contemplate_ lending his trust to, which is so _significant_ in the killing game. (Ouma really was too paranoid to trust anyone, so for him to even think about letting Saihara in…)

Ouma lets himself get pulled to his feet, Saihara wrapping an arm around him for extra support. The purple-haired boy stumbles slightly but ultimately catches himself with a small sound, Saihara’s hold on him tightening instinctively.

“Were you getting something to eat?” Saihara questions as they begin to walk, Ouma leading the way while simultaneously leaning most of his body weight on Saihara.

“Y...Yeah. Kinda. I just couldn’t really stay in my room any longer,” Ouma confesses, voice small. Right; the press, the hangar, the poisoned arrows. To die such a way and then be forced to stay in a small room every day would certainly be suffocating—Saihara grimaces. _No one_ deserves that, no one deserves to die that way. No one deserved to die at all in the killing game in general.

“Um… I know Momota-kun asked you earlier, but how have you been doing?”

“As peachy as ever,” Ouma mutters, sarcasm dripping from his every word. “No, really, it’s… difficult. Everything is. _Ha_. I don’t know. There’s a lot I could tell you, but I don’t feel like it. I’m tired.”

Saihara only hums in return.

They successfully arrive back at Ouma's room. The boy sends him a halfhearted grin, small and taut, before disappearing inside, saying a final “thank you” before Saihara is met with silence once more.

\---

Strange circumstance after strange circumstance after circumstance.

Saihara encounters one a few days after he had walked Ouma back to his room, violet eyes bright in the dim hospital lights before the door had closed and he was left standing in the quiet hallway—this time, there’s a knock on his door in the late evening.

Could it be Momota? Momota typically only visits in the mornings or early afternoons, so…

Shaking his head, Saihara almost falls out of bed (seriously, when will his damn legs start working properly again) and fumbles with the doorknob for a good few moments before gradually pulling the door open.

He’s met with the same amethyst eyes, albeit averted this time; Ouma seems a bit timid and nervous to show up in front of Saihara’s room, if the way his teeth are gnawing at his lip is any clear indication of that.

Saihara jumps slightly from the sheer surprise, “Oh, Ouma-kun—!”

“Hi,” Ouma mumbles, hands wringing in front of him, before he looks even further away from Saihara, which doesn’t even seem possible at this point. “Um. If you don’t want me here, I’ll just go—”

Before he can really think about what he’s doing, Saihara gestures for Ouma to come in. “No, it’s okay, really. I’m fine with this. Uh, you’re welcome in my room at any time, y’know?”

Ouma pauses, before the edges of his lips quirk up just the slightest bit, something that seems a lot more characteristic than the uncomfortable silence he’s subjected himself to. “...Um, letting me in that easy? You never know what I might do to you.”

It’s clear he’s trying to tease, trying to gain some semblance of himself, desperately trying to heal just as Saihara is. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see if you’ll do something to me, then. Come in.”

Ouma hesitates before stepping in, shoulders tense and gaze just the tiniest bit downcast. “Thanks.”

Saihara shuts the door behind him. “S-So, why are you here?”

Ouma hesitates again, eyes troubled, before he nervously glances at the bed (which has the blanket hanging off it from where Saihara had almost fallen to the floor earlier when trying to get up). “Uh.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ouma says, biting his lip again. “I just. I can’t sleep.”

Saihara falters—does this mean Ouma trusts him enough to be there with him when he tries to fall asleep? Is he getting ahead of himself here; what is Ouma suggesting? He’s still so painfully confusing, even outside of the stimulation, but it’s—refreshing, in a way.

“Oh. You can, uh, stay with me?” Saihara proposes, noticing the way Ouma vaguely perks up. “If you’d like…”

“I would. Uh, if you’re okay with it.”

The Ouma in the killing game would have never been so meek, so—cautious with his words, or so faithful in someone else. It’s just another reason for Saihara to try and recover, to heal and lay rest whatever occurred in the simulation; things are different now. 

That’s how he finds himself in bed next to one Ouma Kokichi a good half an hour later, after they had made small talk about things, trying to find their way around the persistent awkwardness that inevitably tries to come between them. 

Ouma is warm, gentle in a way that Saihara would’ve deemed uncharacteristic if their circumstances were different. He is as peaceful as ever when he sleeps, dark circles under his eyes prominent, something Saihara can only hope will be resolved soon enough. _He can help._ He can be there for Ouma, if Ouma ever needs such a person in his life to stay.

They keep a small amount of distance between them, but the heat radiating from Ouma’s petite body is something Saihara can’t ignore—or ever forget, for that matter.

He falls asleep to rhythmic breathing.

\---

The next time he opens his eyes it’s to Ouma rustling in his sleep.

“Please—” the smaller boy says through a strangled gasp, “I—”

“Ouma-kun?” Saihara questions, trying to see through the darkness of the room. “Are you awake?”

He receives no answer, only hearing the erratic breathing of the boy next to him, slowly becoming less stable and more irregular. Something is—wrong. 

Ouma twitches, then shudders, then lets out a stuttered cry. Saihara sits up with a start, hands already hovering and ready to help in any way he can. However, there’s not much he can do—the older boy writhes and shudders again, no doubt suffering from a nightmare. A memory? Both, mangled together into one abomination?

Saihara swallows, unsure of what to do. “Kokichi, hey—”

Ouma’s eyes crack open and he gulps in a breath that leaves him in the form of a pitiful sob. 

Saihara springs into action, hands cupping Ouma’s face and thumbing away any stray tears that leak from wisteria eyes; he brings both of them to sit up as Ouma wails again, shaking his head in the other’s grasp, hands fisting at the bedsheets in an iron grip so tough Saihara wouldn’t be surprised if the blanket were to tear. 

“It’s not real, it’s not real,” Saihara repeats in a low mantra of some sorts. “It wasn’t real, okay?”

Ouma shakes and sobs again, hands moving to come up and grab at Saihara’s shirt, hiccuping gasps wracking his body as he stutters out incomprehensible words—“Pl-Please, make it _stop,_ make it—”

“You’re safe,” Saihara says, firm and yet so very gentle. There was no one there to console him when he had his own nightmares, but if he can help Ouma through the same bad dreams, then that’s really good enough for him.

Ouma falls asleep against Saihara’s chest that night, wrapped up in lanky arms, tears wiped away, as Saihara holds him through the night and reassures him until steady words drift off into deep breathing.

\---

Ouma is gone in the morning, but the traces of his presence remain.

\---

Saihara awakens with a startled gasp, flinching so hard he almost knocks his skull against the side of the bed. Night has fallen—he had dozed off in the afternoon again as a result of his inconsistent sleeping patterns—but there’s another warmth in his bed.

Looking down curiously, he notices the small bundle of warmth under the covers, cheek squished up against his chest and hands clutched loosely into his shirt.

 _Ah_ —seems as if Ouma had begun to take the liberty to stop knocking on Saihara’s door to come in, rather letting himself in and settling against the other in an attempt to find sleep.

Saihara chuckles softly, arms coming to wrap Ouma in a loose hold.

They’re not okay; none of them are, and healing is a long and gradual process, but here with Ouma, finding solace in each other’s presences… Saihara can remain in this safe little sanctuary, for however long life will allow it to last.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments r always nice :>


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